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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177046">stages</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/astankovas/pseuds/astankovas'>astankovas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Death, F/F, Grief, eve goes through the 5 stages of grief, non stop pain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:41:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,553</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/astankovas/pseuds/astankovas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>in which eve gives up after villanelle gives in</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. denial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Twelve. </p><p>That’s how many empty spaces Villanelle has left in her voicemail. </p><p>Eve’s left eighty eight messages for her in the past few weeks. All unopened, all un-listened, all taking up precious space that Eve <i> needs </i> to have to stay sane. </p><p>“Remind me to call my auntie later for her birthday, alright?” Eve mutters into her microphone as she leaves yet another voicemail for her girlfriend to listen to whenever she gets a minute. “I love you, mwah. See you soon.”</p><p>Eve can’t blame her for not opening them, they’re all just silly little unimportant messages in response to her girlfriend’s temporary inability to pick up. Villanelle will make sure to get to them when she has a minute, though. Even better, she’ll finally pick up and answer one day when she can and Eve can rest happily with the knowledge that she’s really listening. </p><p>It’s morning and Eve’s brain is still backed up with melatonin, hoarding it like it’s an non renewable scarcity. Sleep has become something of a foreign concept recently, but it’s alright because Villanelle’s finally coming home today and they’ll finally go back to normal today. Eve’ll hug Villanelle today, tell Villanelle how much she loves her today. </p><p>Eve’s been making her breakfast everyday, in hopes that maybe she previously got her dates and times muddled and maybe she’ll show up at any time and surprise her and eat with her. If she is prepared, she will not fear. It feels too wrong making breakfast for one, anyway. </p><p>Two slices of bread — both white bread just like Villanelle likes it — toasted almost enough to burn, emerging from the toaster just in time before the crisp turns to charcoal. </p><p>The toaster pops. Eve jumps. </p><p>Villanelle likes it liberal with the butter, coating the bread with double the socially-accepted amount of a regular human. It’s one thing that never fails to amuse Eve, Villanelle’s questionable taste in food and subsequent voracity. Eve doesn’t mind though, will use up the entirety of the butter everyday if that’s what Villanelle wants. </p><p>It doesn’t really matter nowadays though, because Villanelle doesn’t seem to eat very much anymore. Nothing at all, really. Nonetheless, she knows the food’s always there for her if she wants it. </p><p>Two cups of coffee — one white for Eve, one black for Villanelle— are prepared in some plain white mugs while the water boils. </p><p>Villanelle’s usual “Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Had My Coffee” mug sits abandoned by the sink, her nude lipstick prints decorating the brim in various locations, a splash of cold, black liquid settled in the bottom. Coffee granules have separated from the murky water and float on top, leaving a sludgy brown film over the top, the perks of never being cleaned out in weeks. The longer it sits there, the longer it stains the white ceramic. Eve won’t clean it today. There’s always tomorrow. </p><p>The kettle pops. Eve jumps. </p><p>“Breakfast’s ready!” Eve calls out, setting both plates and both mugs on the kitchen island that she and Villanelle painstakingly installed by hand six years ago with nothing but a Swedish instruction booklet and unwithering senses of humour to keep them going. Maybe today they can talk about the weird dreams they had last night and their plans for the coming day and what they need to buy from the grocery store on the way home like they used to before. </p><p>There’s no reply, complete silence bar the never-ending tinnitus buzz in Eve’s ear that won’t leave her alone, morning, noon and night. Eve waits a moment before calling out again. </p><p>Villanelle doesn’t answer this morning. Villanelle doesn’t eat anything this morning. </p><p>Villanelle didn’t answer yesterday or eat yesterday but God loves a trier. </p><p>In all fairness, Eve doesn’t eat much these days either, picking at the corners of her toast until the nausea becomes too strong to handle and she has to rush to the basin again. Full days have been spent recently with a head in the toilet bowl, a chill in the air and tear stained cheeks. </p><p>When Villanelle comes home today, she’ll rush to hold Eve’s hands and look after her and kiss her and apologise profusely for leaving her alone for this long, to which Eve will maintain that it’s perfectly alright, she just missed Villanelle <i> so fucking </i> much. </p><p>“Food’s here for you if you want it.” Eve’s pretty sure she’s talking to an abyss, a black hole, a wall, herself. Her weak voice can only mutter so many words each day and Villanelle’s breakfast call takes up the vast majority of them. Unsurprisingly, Villanelle’s toast goes stale and hard and her coffee goes cold. </p><p>It’s all just wasted words and wasted food, because ultimately, Villanelle doesn’t live here anymore. </p><p>Someone else makes her coffee and toast now, someone Eve doesn’t know. Hopefully they make it just as good as Eve does, but who really knows. Maybe that’s why she never eats any of Eve’s food now, because someone else makes it better for her. Maybe she’s just not hungry these days. </p><p>Maybe, Eve thinks, today is a good day to be proactive and visit Villanelle all on her own. Eve’s prolonged efforts of sticking it out and waiting and waiting and waiting for Villanelle to show up at their front door and pull her in for a kiss and go straight back to how they used to be have proven unsuccessful, and desperation always seems to take over. Villanelle’s probably wondering why Eve hasn’t visited her, probably waiting for Eve just as Eve is waiting for her. Eve needs to talk to her, catch up, hear how she’s doing. It’s been weeks since they saw each other last, since Eve told Villanelle how beautiful she looks or how much she loves her or how strong she is or how she can’t wait for things to be normal again. </p><p>Long distance is far from easy, as it seems, even if long distance is nothing but a ten minute drive. Any amount of distance feels astronomical, too long and suffocating and hot and <i> fucking impossible </i> considering they’ve been joined at the hip since the very first time they met.</p><p>It was like the entire world fucking <i> stopped </i> that day. Eve was sure she died and got trampled and thrown and torn up and then sewn back up and mended and revived. Love caught her by the throat and dazed her eyes and fogged up her mind with nothing but eye contact and her heartbeat raced where her voice-box failed and it’s a miracle Villanelle even gave her a second glance, never mind a full-blown chance. A chance to experience real, genuine happiness with a swell in her heart and air in her lungs and peace in her mind. They fell in love with all the velocity of a speeding car, an airplane takeoff, a rocket launch and with all the calm of a dwindling stream and a birdsong. Two halves of a whole, the only company they’ll ever need within each other. They’ve barely spent a night apart before all this and now it seems that every single night Eve gets lonelier and the Villanelle-shaped imprint on her side of their mattress has long since relaxed and Eve’s refusing to wash the sheets or wash her clothes or change anything. Everything has to be exactly how Villanelle left it for when she comes home. Sudden changes might startle her. When they’re reunited Eve will never, ever let her girlfriend out of her sight again until the day they die. </p><p>Eve’s getting dressed into one of Villanelle’s hoodies and a pair of Villanelle’s too-long pants and sprays Villanelle’s signature perfume all over herself to <i> remember. </i> Remember her distinct scent and style and look forward to the day she gets to experience it for real again. All Eve longs for is more lazy days on the couch with her love, wearing hoodies and draped in blankets, more alone time in the secluded section they found on their favourite beach, more meadow walks and car rides and busy days and long nights, floating through the unalterable sanctity of the mundane. One day it’ll be theirs to keep once again, but for now they’re consigned to the incinerator of loneliness, with nothing but memories and emotions to tide them over until they get there. </p><p>Eve lays out Villanelle’s uneaten toast on the overgrowing grass in the backyard on her way out. It can become worm food, or whatever. When Villanelle comes back, Eve can make fresh toast for her. Maybe it won’t be for a while, but losing hope gets Eve no where.</p><p>She’ll cross another day off her calendar and pray Villanelle comes home tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>.</p><p> </p><p>Eve hates the cold. Like, would probably rather burn her skin off in a furnace than briefly walk around in any temperature below freezing. It’s safe to say there’s absolute no other person Eve would do this for, trudge up a muddy hill through the biting chill of a northern January. Hopefully Villanelle’s new house is warm. </p><p>Hating the cold whilst having an Eastern European girlfriend is quite simply an invitation to be teased to no end. Villanelle is always amused by the way Eve can’t handle even the slightest drop in temperature, practically refusing to leave the house at the first sign of frost. Villanelle happily walks around with no jacket in sub zero temperatures, claiming, “It’s not even that cold!” to which Eve rolls her eyes and laughs, pulling her arms in closer to herself. </p><p>Despite her relentless taunting though, Villanelle will never, ever let Eve get cold if she can prevent it. Eve’ll steal the majority of the duvet covers in bed, leaving Villanelle with exposed legs and arms that she notices but never, ever grudges. She’ll fill up heat packs in the winter for Eve when the house gets a little colder, supplying endless cuddles to keep her cozy. Eve’s showered in hordes of fluffy gloves and scarves and socks as gifts from her doting girlfriend, making use of each and every one like they’re handcrafted by the Creator. </p><p>Give Villanelle the option to make Eve happy, she’ll take it, no questions asked, ever. </p><p>Villanelle would do it for her and if Eve visiting Villanelle might cheer her up a little, of course she’ll do it, no questions asked, ever. </p><p>The path to where her girlfriend is living is long and winding and somewhat treacherous in Eve’s under-slept, weak and manic state. It’s completely mapped out in Eve’s brain now, despite her only having visited once. Eve’s dreamed about this path almost every night. More specifically, she’s dreamed about Villanelle walking through it to come back to their home and back to normal life, healthy and happy and ready to forget. She hasn’t yet. If Eve visiting Villanelle herself is what it takes, then so be it.</p><p>The wind only seems to get more and more frigid and Eve’s cheeks are burning red and it’s perfectly plausible that if Eve starts crying like she desperately wants to, the tears may freeze in place. It’s dark and ugly here and the only thing that keeps Eve going is thoughts of her girlfriend. Villanelle’s probably scared here, and she never gets scared. When Eve finally sees her ultimate end point, she’s practically sprinting towards it. </p><p>Villanelle’s here somewhere. Eve can’t be more than a couple hundred feet from the love of her life for the first time in weeks but she can’t fucking <i> see </i> her and the panic is rising in her throat at the thought of not finding her. When she spots the unmistakable head of blonde hair and broad shoulders sat on the ground a few metres away, though, she can only breathe a heavy sigh of relief before rushing over.</p><p>Villanelle’s sat upright, staring at the ground, fingers fiddling with the grass beneath her. Bored out of her mind, sad beyond measure, just waiting. Waiting like Eve has been for weeks. If heartbreak is a vision, there’s no way this isn’t it. </p><p>When she finally looks up and makes eye contact with Eve, though, her face lights up, practically beaming from ear to ear in an instant. There’s this familiar look in her eye, so warm and full of love that it takes Eve back to every other time she has seen it: laying in bed, date nights, long drives, petty arguments. Villanelle motions Eve to come sit down beside her, to keep her company, to feel her warmth, to be normal. </p><p>“Fuck. I missed you so much.” Eve pants, immediately sitting herself down next to her girl, immediately relaxing against the weight of her body, head nuzzling into her neck. </p><p>“Sorry I haven’t visited you in a few weeks.” Villanelle doesn’t give a response, Eve’s stopped expecting one. </p><p>“It’s hard to see you like this.” If Eve’s voice quivers a little at her own words, she can only hope Villanelle doesn’t notice. In her right mind, she’d call Eve silly and make jokes about how nothing’s changed between them. She’s not in her right mind, though, so her ‘Hard to see me like what?’ goes unspoken. In fact, Eve knows she’s saying just that in her own head. Out loud however, it’s radio silence as always. “You still look beautiful as ever, though.”</p><p>“I wanted to bring you a gift but I forgot. Typical Eve, I know.”</p><p>Then, Villanelle’s comfortingly wrapping a warm arm around Eve, and she cuddles up even closer to her girl. It’s so horrendously cold here, but Eve’s downright amazed by Villanelle’s instant warmth and ability to make her feel utterly content, regardless of the shitty circumstance. They’re soulmates, Eve’s never been so sure of anything in her entire life. </p><p>“Can you come home soon? The house is too quiet without you. Like, seriously, I’m tired of hearing myself think. I’d pay good money to hear you read out one of your insane conspiracy theories again. Or telling me dumb facts about animals. Or singing too loud in the shower. You have a beautiful voice, by the way. I think I’ve always been too busy telling you to shut up, that I haven’t let you know before.”</p><p>Eve knows Villanelle’s internally laughing, smiling coyly that she’s finally getting the confession she has always wanted out of Eve. It only took these fucking earth-shattering circumstances to pry it out of her, but Villanelle will take it regardless. Cherish it, never let it go. </p><p>“I love you so much.” And the dam Eve had done such a good job of holding together all this time breaks. Eve’s falling apart in Villanelle’s arms and all Villanelle can do is hold her tighter and keep her warmer, offering plenty in the way of presence and not much more. Eve’s ears perk up with the sudden unmistakable “shhh” coos from her girlfriend and it’s the first noise she’s heard Villanelle make in person for weeks and she’s crying harder til she can’t breathe anymore and the nausea’s back and she needs to stay here forever. </p><p>Eve feels fucking crazy. </p><p>Maybe it’s because she’s crying so hard, with emotions that normally stay bottled up now exploding like mentos to coke, bubbling over til they make a mess of everything. </p><p>Maybe it’s because Villanelle will think she’s insane, think she’s crying for no reason and wish she could make Eve stop, tell her she’s happy and that there’s nothing to cry about. </p><p>Maybe, probably, it’s because she’s hugging her dead girlfriend’s gravestone, sat on freshly dug soil, imagining the feeling of Villanelle’s comforting embrace and interpreting the bitter January wind whipping past her ears as some sort of communication. </p><p>It’s probably that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yuh yuh another multichap cuz im insane</p><p>and this time its painful sorry</p><p>i wrote this between the hours of 12am and 4am last night while drunk so yasss heres something</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. anger</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There should be a law against giving flowers to mourners. </p>
<p>Eve’s house has been like a fucking greenhouse ever since Villanelle died, every room filled with plants in various states of freshness and decay, buds blooming and petals dropping. Eve never looks at them long enough to distinguish, or care. Flowers are uncreative and lazy and boring and ugly and pointless and Eve fucking hates them, wants nothing to do with them. </p>
<p>Give Villanelle all the flowers, decorate her graveside with every chrysanthemum and lily and carnation and hydrangea and rose and peony. Buy angel figurines and stones with engraved poems and windmills and give them to Villanelle to make her resting place beautiful and colourful and peaceful like she so wholeheartedly deserves. She’d love them and appreciate them, because she’s dead and there’s only so much excitement and inspiration she can pull from her own gravestone. Keep all that shit so far away from Eve. </p>
<p>Eve doesn’t even like flowers, let alone know how to arrange them or feed them or keep them alive. It feels like a slap in the face, because that should be Villanelle’s job, has always been Villanelle’s job. Villanelle loved flowers and would take charge of every bouquet Eve bought for her, cutting the stems and heating the water and arranging them perfectly and feeding them fancy flower foods for their longevity. Roses were her all-time favourite. Eve’d tease her, call them ugly and generic and Villanelle’d laugh and continue arranging them neatly in her vase without a care in the world, so content and wide-eyed and beautiful. </p>
<p>That’s why, when Eve reluctantly opens the door to the local florist clutching yet another bouquet of red roses for her, she has to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. Or crying. Or shouting. Or throwing something. Emotional receptors in her brain are too muddled and entangled these days, so who really knows. </p>
<p>“I’m so sorry for your loss.” the florist tells Eve, who can’t even muster a ‘hello’ or a ‘thank you’ or anything remotely resembling a smile. She hasn’t showered, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t had a single positive thought. “We have a backlog of orders just for you. Coworkers and family members have all contacted us to arrange bouquets, we have upwards of ten. We figured it’s best to stagger the deliveries over a few weeks so you aren’t overrun. Is that alright with you?”</p>
<p>Eve can only nod meekly, biting down on her shaky bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The faux sympathy is almost laughable, leaving the most bitter taste in Eve’s mouth. This woman’s not fucking sorry for Eve’s loss. She’ll never fucking understand Eve’s loss because she gets to go home at night and kiss her partner and not feel this overwhelming <i> pain </i> that Eve can’t manage to shake. This florist gets to go back to her shop and arrange flowers for other people’s dead loved ones, monetise from them and say the exact same spiel to each and every mourner and feign sadness while Eve stays in the same spot soaking in Villanelle’s thick, heavy, suffocating absence and hoping the reaper takes her sooner rather than later. Eve’s life is permanently ruined, her heart in shreds and she’d be better off in a casket six feet deep alongside the love of her life and all this lady can do is hand her a bunch of fifty red roses and pretend to care. </p>
<p>What better gift to say “Sorry your girlfriend died!” than flowers. Flowers that Eve can watch wilt and die just like she watched Villanelle wilt and die. It’s a great sentiment, really. </p>
<p>Without leaving any room to reply, Eve takes the roses and closes the door, resisting the urge against all odds to tell the florist to go fuck herself, then send a text to every contact in her phone to go fuck themselves too. Because fuck whoever sent these, fuck whoever picked them, fuck whoever arranged them, fuck Villanelle for dying, fuck Eve for not dying, fuck the universe for presenting this high rise shitstorm and fuck everything in between. </p>
<p>Roses are fucking ugly and it’s all Eve can think as she’s brashly tearing the cellophane and ribbon off of the flowers and dunking them into the last empty vase in the entire house. The only thing stopping them from going straight in the trash is the already overflowing can that Eve does not have the energy to empty and will likely stay overflowing until it attracts flies. The mere sight of the stupid fucking flowers is causing the rage to bubble up even stronger in Eve’s innards until she erupts. </p>
<p>Villanelle would’ve loved them but Eve’s not Villanelle and Villanelle’s fucking dead. Villanelle’s dead. Villanelle’s deceased. Villanelle’s underground. Villanelle’s worm food. </p>
<p>The shrill of Eve’s annoying, high pitched, deafening ringtone fills the air of their now-empty house and makes Eve jump out of her skin. The caller ID isn’t Villanelle. It’ll never be Villanelle, so what’s the point. What’s the point in owning a phone if the only person Eve wants to talk to is dead? The phone is thrown hard across the room, hitting against a glass ornament on its descent and bringing it to the ground with a piercing shatter against the hardwood floor. </p>
<p>And it feels good. It feels vaguely like something Eve’s needed. It feels like a space filling the tiniest smidgen of the gargantuan void in Eve’s heart and mind and lungs and loins and for a split second, she can breathe again. </p>
<p>Maybe Eve can smash every dinnerware item in their house, every glass, every ornament. She’s not entirely sure that the windows are safe at this point. If everything’s smashed, she’ll feel better. She’s sure of it. </p>
<p>Rows of mugs and glasses and plates are lined up on the kitchen island, awaiting their messy, unnecessary demise at the hands of Eve, whose throwing them as hard as she can on the ground and against walls and against each other. Each shattered glass and broken ceramic feeling like a long overdue release, like a weight off her shoulders. Villanelle’s not here to shout at her or calm her down or clean things up or just fucking <i> talk </i> so it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore except the ever growing fire tearing through Eve’s loins and destructing her life systems and hopefully finally bringing her breathing to a halt, if she’s lucky. </p>
<p>The kitchen floor is teeming with tiny shards and chunks and fragments and splinters that glisten in the overhead lighting and Eve wishes she could join them, wishes she could throw herself down and fracture into thousands of pieces and lay there until she’s cleaned up and disposed of and forgotten about. </p>
<p>Eve’s all out of intact mugs now, bar Villanelle’s favourite stupid, unmoved, lipstick stained mug, staring at Eve like it’s mocking her, like it’s a challenge. </p>
<p>She still won’t move it. Maybe tomorrow. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Screaming is really an underrated coping mechanism. </p>
<p>Screaming into pillows, screaming out loud, screaming to yourself, screaming at other people. It’s therapeutic in the way that it steals breath and draws too much attention and too little attention and hurts to keep up and exerts more than it gives.</p>
<p>Eve’s found herself shouting and screaming a lot. Any loud noise helps, really. Any single idea to help her drown out her thoughts is greatly welcomed nowadays. The short lived catharsis lets Eve relax momentarily until the anger and fire and toil reaches boiling point again and she’s as floored and as breathless and as shattered as always. </p>
<p>Writing angry letters helps, too, with the straight to the point <i> Fuck you Villanelle Fuck you Villanelle Fuck you Villanelle Fuck you Villanelle </i> letter on Eve’s bedside as damning evidence. </p>
<p>Anger can be helpful when processing difficult emotions. It’s a source of energy, a motivation and proof that Eve <i> can </i> still feel things, no matter how much she feels like an emotionless lump of nothingness. It seems to be the common denominator of all of Eve’s days without Villanelle; anger. Anger that Villanelle’s not here, mainly. Anger that the world took away the brightest light in her life for no apparent reason. Anger that so many other people on Earth deserved it more than Villanelle. Anger that nothing could be done to save Villanelle. Anger that Villanelle’s illness was too far gone by the time doctors caught it. Anger that Eve couldn’t have helped Villanelle sooner. Anger that Villanelle suffered unimaginable physical pain prior. Anger that no one else understands the unimaginable psychological pain Eve’s going through. </p>
<p>Memories keep resurfacing, playing on a loop like scratched records and haunting Eve’s every waking moment like poltergeists, nefarious and unforgiving. Some aren’t so bad; happy memories of their meeting and their honeymoon phase and their trips together and their inside jokes and their late night conversations and their milestones. Others are cold and dark and pressing, things that Eve wishes she could wipe from her memory, things she wishes never had to happen in the first place. </p>
<p>
  <i> “So, how long do I have left?” Villanelle croaks, squeezing Eve’s hand and staring up desperately at her doctor. They were told this would be a simple test results consultation to track Villanelle’s progress, but now the doctor talks about “quality of life” and “time left” and “comfortability,” all signs that point to Villanelle being terminal. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“If you take the treatment, probably six months. It could be a couple months longer if your body reacts positively, but most of our patients live an average of six months afterwards.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Eve lets out a gargled cry, louder than anticipated as the tears previously welling in her eyes slowly begin to trickle down her face. Until now, there’s been no indication that Villanelle’s sickness is terminal. It was never looking good for her, but there was always the hope and belief that she’ll recover but now that’s gone to shit and Eve can’t breathe. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The treatment’s invasive, risky. It’ll take everything out of Villanelle, swallowing her whole and spitting her out a shell. It’ll be treacherous, complicated, painful, tough, stressful. For the sake of an extra month or so of life, it’s objectively not worth it. Villanelle’s smart about this stuff, she knows exactly what her body can and can’t take. She’d rather take five good, normal months with Eve than six pained, hospitalised months with Eve. It’s an unfortunate no brainer, no matter how hard it may be to accept. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“And without treatment?” Villanelle asks, thumb caressing the back of Eve’s hand, voice strong and stable as always. They’re praying for 5 and a half months. 5 months. 4 months, even. Villanelle will make it to October at least and they’ll cross off every single item on her bucket list and she won’t have the burden of treatment and medication and struggle and everything’ll be normal for her last few months. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You’ll likely pass away in your sleep soon. I’d give it two weeks, maximum.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>All attempts at keeping quiet and supportive completely leave Eve as the desperate sobs she’s been holding in for their entire consultation are released. It’s either two peaceful weeks or six turbulent months, with the finish line of death ultimately inevitable and looming dark and heavy. Eve’s shaking and crying and gasping and Villanelle’s just hugging her, rubbing slow, comforting circles on her back and attempting to calm her down. When Eve’s eyes look up to meet Villanelle’s, she’s greeted with an unfortunately unfamiliar sight, tears brimming in Villanelle’s eyes. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Her girlfriend’s always been seemingly unfazed during the course of her own sickness. Sure, there’s been so many times where Eve’s seen her crippled, doubled over and shouting out in pain and throwing up from her meds and desperately clinging to Eve while she seizes. It hasn’t been an easy ride by any means, but nothing’s ever visibly gotten her down before. Eve’s seen Villanelle ill, tired, drugged up, pained, confused, but never, ever sad. It’s arguably Villanelle’s constant positive attitude that’s even got them this far without shattering. She’ll laugh everything off, sometimes too much for Eve’s liking, making jokes of her own suffering and fear like they’re hilarious. It’s the first time Eve’s ever seen her consciously crying with sadness since she was first diagnosed six months ago, and the sentiment is making this a whole lot harder for Eve. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’ll give you ladies a moment alone to chat about where we go from here.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>There’s a gentle close of the door and a thick, tense silence only broken by Eve’s sobs and sniffs. Villanelle’s head is tilted backwards as her lungs inhale deeply, albeit shakily, her composure faltering like a house on unstable foundations. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You have to.” Eve tries, words barely audible through her tears. “I can’t. You have to-” It’s selfish and it’s pathetic and it’s unfair and it’s self-serving but there’s no way Eve can lose Villanelle in the next two weeks. It’s not an option, can’t be an option. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I will, baby. Shhh. Don’t worry. I will.” Villanelle’s still audibly composed and calm, ensuring Eve’s feeling alright before ever worrying about herself. It’s equal parts admirable and worrying, the way she would do anything to make Eve happy. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Arguably, Villanelle would be pretty happy to pass away peacefully in her sleep sooner rather than later, gain her freedom from the constant pain and suffering she has to grin and bear every day and finally take to the sky. She’s struggling. Struggling with pain and nausea and malaise and undoubtedly more that she never tells Eve about and never will tell Eve about. Villanelle’s a prey animal, hiding every indication of weakness from Eve like her life depends on it. Catch her by the tail, she’ll drop the tail. Weight is tearing off her at a faster pace than Eve ever could’ve prepared for, visibly withering and wasting away. The other day, Eve had to help Villanelle brush her own teeth, with even the most menial tasks proving to be a struggle as her body strength deteriorates, something that treatment will only exacerbate. Quality of life must be pretty shit at this point, but here’s Eve crying in Villanelle’s arms, begging her to keep it going for her own selfish sake.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’ll be fine, alright?” Villanelle coos against Eve’s ear, arms wrapped comfortingly around her body, warming her up in ripples and waves. “I’ll take the treatment and we can spend another Christmas together, yeah? We’ll make these months count, I promise. And hey, he said I might get even longer too, might even make it to our anniversary.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>It’s too many “might”s and not enough “definitely”s for Eve’s liking. Too many uncertainties and not enough answers. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>The possibility that Villanelle might not see either of those events is all too real and Eve’s tears just keep flowing and flowing. Villanelle could die tomorrow, for fuck sake. Her own body is attacking itself from the inside and there are no guaranteed timelines, just a sick waiting game and they’re gambling on the inevitable. Eve could wake up tomorrow morning next to Villanelle’s dead body. The uncertainty makes the panic strike stronger and the tears flow hotter. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I love you so much.” Villanelle’s telling Eve as if she could ever forget. Eve hopes she’ll never forget. “I hate seeing you upset like this, need you to stay positive for me. We’ll make our time left worth it.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I love you. Promise me you’ll fight it as long as you can.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“I promise, Eve. I promise.” </i>
</p>
<p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <i> Talk to her like she’s still alive. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Go about life as if she’s right there with you, because she is right there with you. </i>
</p>
<p>That’s the bullshit Eve’s NHS-funded, under-qualified grief counsellor has tried to instill into her through their weekly unhelpful phone sessions. And it’s all bullshit because Villanelle’s dead. She’s not still alive, she’s not still with Eve. Because she’s fucking dead. No amount of pretending or screaming or crying is bringing her back. </p>
<p>
  <i> Tell her about your day and all the things you wish you could tell her and know in your heart that she’s listening. </i>
</p>
<p>Villanelle’s not listening. Because she’s fucking dead. Her ears have probably disintegrated by now. She can’t hear shit. It doesn’t stop Eve from once again spitting aloud the only single words her voice has managed to muster today. </p>
<p>“Fuck you.” </p>
<p>Whether its addressed to God, the stars, the solar system, Villanelle’s illness, Villanelle herself — Eve’s unsure. She’ll send it out like a sonic boom, hitting all the relevant parties and all the irrelevant parties too. Maybe the world can take it onboard, realise how fucking shit Eve’s situation is and blow her up. Make her spontaneously combust, turn her to ashes, reunite her with Villanelle so Eve can slap her. Fuck this, fuck everyone, fuck it. </p>
<p>And now Eve’s crying on Villanelle’s side of their king bed, dampening the pillows and trying to inhale all the fading remnants of her scent because it could be the last time she ever experiences it for real. When Villanelle’s scent leaves, that’s when Eve’ll end things, she’s sure of it. </p>
<p>Normally Villanelle would be fussing over an upset Eve, cuddling her, comforting her and cheering her up with dumb little jokes and reminding Eve how much she’s loved.  But Eve’s alone now. Villanelle can’t comfort her or hear her or help her or love her because Villanelle’s dead. </p>
<p>The only company Eve has now are shards of glass, wilting flowers and tearstained sheets, a perpetual reminder of the loss weighing heavy beside her on their bed.</p>
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